


The Fragile Substance of a Soul

by antiscians



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, john watson - Fandom
Genre: Amnesia, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:23:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antiscians/pseuds/antiscians
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is haunted by the fall of Sherlock, enough that his mind has created an image of the man to appease and help heal the grief. Unfortunately, that also works to reveal the innermost thoughts of the man that not even he knew of. The mind can play strange tricks on a man in grief. Sherlock returns, but only part of him does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

He wondered if it was easy.

It certainly did seem that way. Regardless of the truth in the man's actions, he was numb. He felt it every day, despite his attempts to move on. Nothing worked. It was all in vain.

Every news paper clipping, every article. Hell, seeing the titles were enough to make him vomit. Fraud.

They were taunting him incessantly. Reminding him of the conversation Sherlock had bitterly forced him to hear over the phone. There was no way John could have pulled back, hung up. Not when his friend was standing on the ledge of a roof top, informing him of his tentative death.

Without any warning. John hadn't seen it coming.

John felt older every day, as if the man's death had taken years from his own life. He'd watched that man fall from grace, both metaphorically and physically.

Sherlock had dropped from the roof, without any reservations. John was left with the shadow of the man, jumping over and over. It hurt each night, worse than the first time.

The limp was back.

"Please, will you do this for me?"  
"Do what?"  
"This phone call – it's, er … it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?"  
"Leave a note when?"  
"Goodbye, John."  
"No. Don't."

A thousand times, he heard it over and over. He didn't understand any of it. Why Sherlock had jumped, what had made him do it. Every night, it made him sick. He wanted to throw up.

John couldn't close his ears from it. Him screaming the man's name, the sound of voices around him. He just couldn't do it.

He couldn't forget the man who'd ripped his heart out.

And here he was. Standing in the middle of 221b Baker Street like nothing had happened, clutching the partially full cardboard box like nothing had happened. And there he was, standing as if he'd never jumped off of the building.

"Problem?" The same voice; the same eyes beneath the dark hair.

The box slipped from his hands, his knees feeling weak. His throat tightened.

"Sherlock…" His voice was barely a whisper, hoarse at best. The man turned to face him, tugging at the jacket he wore. A quick, half-smile. "Yes?" His eyebrows went up briefly as John stepped forward, limping from his hip. He nearly fell, but he caught himself as he stuck a hand out to touch the man.

His hand drifted through, falling back down to his body as he swallowed dryly. A hallucination?

"Merely a vision to fill the void, I would suppose. You're a doctor, you should know."

The voice came from behind him. He straightened himself upwards, turning to look behind him. Sherlock was running his eyes over the skull that had been on the mantle. John swallowed again. A vision. A shadow.

It seemed that Sherlock's fall had done much more to John than he thought it had.

"You're not Sherlock." John said rather bluntly, returning his gaze to the vision. A smirk settled on it's features as he returned the skull to the mantle. "Of course not. That's just silly." He said slowly, turning his self to face John. He certainly was identical to the man in every way he could think of.

"I'm merely a physical representation of the Sherlock you can remember." Another quick smile before the man stepped around the room. "A manifestation of your sorrow, if you will." He poked through the various boxes that had been piling up since Sherlock's funeral.

John swallowed. "I see." It was all he could think of. What does one say to themselves? Was it him? John wasn't sure. He was a medical doctor, not a psychiatrist.

His mind wandered back to that day, recalling the conversation as he looked away. John was trying to delve further into the reasoning behind the fall. Sherlock wasn't one to care about what others thought.

"Do you really believe all of that, John?"

He looked up to the shadow again. His heart thudded against his rib cage as the image of a bloody Sherlock stood before him. He moved nearer, it's stare unwavering. "Do you really believe what I said?" John's teeth clenched together as he took a step back. "O-Of course not…" He said slowly, forcing himself to look away.

"Who're you trying to convince?"

He looked to the man again. "Right." He said slowly. It was difficult to keep his thoughts together. It wasn't as if he could hide what he was thinking from him. This man was a part of him, quite literally.

He frowned.


	2. Your Strength Makes Me Weak

John found it difficult to keep his eyes on the man. The gaze, reddened from obvious internal bleeding, made him nervous.

Sherlock smiled.

"Perhaps…the truth is too much." He looked up again, this time a less bloody Sherlock stood before him.  
"Probably." John mumbled as he pushed his hands through his hair. Even in death, Sherlock was there. Even if it wasn't really him.

"So, you're leaving then?" Sherlock's voice pulled John's gaze upward. "I can't pay the rent."He said numbly, returning to the box he had dropped. The man scoffed. "Quit lying. Mrs. Hudson isn't cruel." He cringed at the words, but he didn't look up. He repacked the box and eased himself to his feet. His leg ached terribly. Leaning on one side, he glanced the man over. His mouth was sour.

"I wanted to avoid this."  
"Avoid what?"  
"Recreating you. That's why I'm leaving."

His throat felt the size of a pinhole. Sherlock merely smiled at his words. "Am I really that easily let go, John? Don't lie." John looked away, shaking his head. This Sherlock was worse. This one was in him, tugging at the fibers of his being. This was the worst kind of game.

"No. Of course not. But I can always try." He didn't look up. He inhaled sharply, turning on his heel as he lumbered out of the flat. His body felt as heavy as ever. The door clicked behind him as he pulled it shut. He was glad Mrs. Hudson had left. She was in London for the day with friends.

He stepped down onto the side walk, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. "I'm going to stay around, John."

He was there again, standing perfectly still on the sidewalk. His coat was buttoned up, scarf nestled within it against his chest and his hands were in his pockets. John shook his head, moving past him. The man easily took up stride with him. John cast a sideways glance, his eyebrows furrowed. The man said nothing, rather, he watched John with the same stony features, as if scrutinizing his features.

John stuck his arm out in the air as he approached the edge of the sidewalk. "Oi!" A can swerved from the road to greet him. John pulled the door open, giving a final stare to the Sherlock standing on the sidewalk, arms folded over his chest. "Where to?" The cabbie's voice pulled his attention away from the man. "Trepol Street, 639." The driver nodded and pulled away from the curb, merging into traffic.

"I'm hurt, John."

He blinked several times. "Excuse me?" The cabbie turned around. Sherlock grinned beneath the driver's hat. "Bloody hell…" John rubbed his eyes and looked down. "You alright?" He looked up again. The cab driver stared at him through the reflection of the rear view mirror. He nodded.

"Yes…sorry. Long day."  
"Alright..."

The vehicle fell silent for only a few minutes. "It's not polite to leave an old friend on the sidewalk like that." His arm was jostled. "Why do you keep following me?" He grumbled, keeping his voice low and face nearly expressionless. Sherlock sighed, crossing his leg over the other before he drummed his fingertips against his knee cap.

"You can't runaway from yourself. I told you this." John growled. "You're not me…" He said dully, keeping his eyes focused out the window as Westminster sped on by.

There was a whisper in his ear and breath against his neck. He shuddered slightly.

"Of course I am, John. The real Sherlock Holmes is dead. You saw it with your own eyes…" John swallowed, his throat tightening. "…do you believe it, John? That the great Sherlock Holmes is dead?" The words were bitter sounding to his ears.

"I saw him jump."  
"We all jump, John. It's in our nature. We humans always think that it's as easy as that: a graceful dive from a ledge. It's not that simple. " John shook his head. "I was there. I felt his pulse…t-there was nothing." His eyes watered. Sherlock merely smirked, pulling away to settle on the other side of the cab. He turned his head only briefly. "I'm not convinced."

The cab pulled up next to the curb and John nearly kicked the door open, tossing the fare of the seat as he crawled out, box in hand. "Hey!" John didn't stop but instead took the steps up the stoop two at a time.

"You paid twice the fare, mister!"  
"Keep it!"

John bellowed back as he jammed the key into the door, turning it. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, letting it swing shut behind him. Sherlock followed him in, snaking up the stairs faster to block him.

"Why'd you double your fare, John?" A smirk had settled on his features as John pushed through him like smoke. John stuck his keys into another door then kicked it open to reveal a mediocre looking flat. He threw the box to the floor and hurried to the sink in the far corner, turning the cold water on before he splashed his face.

"Leave me alone!" A faint laugh came from behind him as John scrubbed his face with a wet washcloth. He was going insane. Sherlock was dead. This thing…this, he, it…it wasn't real.

"I'm only as real as you make me, John." He dried his face and turned around to see Sherlock standing in his robe, spinning once around as if to judge the state of the man's new home. "Downgrade, don't you think?" He furrowed his brows.

John wanted to ignore the man, but the mere fact that it looked like Sherlock made him want to respond; to pretend this was really him. John couldn't. His insides hurt.

His best friend was dead.

"Get out." He turned around and leaned against the counter, hands pressed to his face. "I can't." The other replied simply. John looked at him and frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I can't just simply 'get out'." He wiggled his fingers after pulling them from the pockets of his robe. He let them drop down to his side before he dropped onto the small couch in the middle of the flat. John moved closer to the couch, eyeing the man. He was unsure of himself. All the while, Sherlock simply returned the gaze. John took a seat on the far end. "Why not?"

"You won't let me."  
He frowned.

Sherlock sighed, tilting his head back again. "You know…it's ironic. I know you better than you think I do…" His voice trailed off as John turned his gaze forward, hands digging into the skin of his leg. The man lifted his body and creeped onto the middle cushion.

"I'm here only because you want me to be." He said slowly, his head tilting to examine John's face. The man was beginning to tremble. "…because you miss me…" Sherlock smirked. "And no matter how hard you try to hide the feelings, John, I know all of them. How you lo-"

"SHUT IT." John half screamed, his body trembling as he threw a fist to the side. His hand fell to only meet cushion, a plume of dust rising into the air. He let out a choked cough and covered his mouth with his forearm. The room was silent as he looked around. It was just him.

Alone.

He sniffled and wiped his face. He wasn't sure how he was going to do this on his own. John pushed himself to his feet and clenched his thigh, nearly toppling over. He managed to catch himself on the arm of the sofa, grimacing as he breathed heavily. He slowly pushed himself up, limping to the other side of the room as he held his leg. John stopped short of the boxes stacked against the wall, digging through it before his hands met the cool rubber.

He pulled up and out, pressing the can into the carpet as he leaned into it.

It hurt worse than before.

He returned to the sofa and eased himself onto it, resting the cane between his legs as he let out a shuddered breath. "Damnit, Sherlock…" He said softly, gravel in his voice as he leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

John was torn. Part of him hated Sherlock for offing himself, whilst the other wanted to curl up and cry, begging the higher power above him to let Sherlock be alive. John wasn't a religious man, but every night since the procession, he'd found himself talking aloud, as if to a friend, asking for forgiveness of whatever could have caused the death of his friend. He wanted Sherlock back.

It wasn't his time.


	3. Take Me Home

The days were grueling. They blended together and pushed John to think that it was all simply the same day on repeat. Sherlock continually appeared as John immersed himself further into his work, depriving himself of social contact. He loomed over the Doctor like the reaper, eyeing and scrutinizing everything the man did. John just tried to ignore him, though some days, it was more difficult.

The few days he was at home, Mrs. Hudson always seemed to stop by, remarking on his thinness and then give him a basket of sweets. Lestrade stopped by on occasion as well, but only when he needed a question answered that revolved around John's expertise in the medical field. Not once did any of those who knew before Sherlock's death mention the man. It seemed to be an unspoken secret between them all that he wasn't doing well.

John wasn't hesitant to agree.

The man had quit working hours ago, but he'd neglected to leave the office. It was the first day in a while that he'd felt semi-decent. The ghost of Sherlock (as he called it; he still wasn't quite sure if he'd gone that loony) had yet to appear to him for the day. It was as if the heavens had opened up to offer him some sort of internal peace. He smiled, only slightly as he pressed the button of the monitor at his desk. It clicked and shut off, the screen going dark as he pushed himself away. John glanced to his wrist; it was nearly one in the morning.

"Suppose I should go home…" He muttered softly, pushing a hand through his hair as he stepped out from the desk and pushed the chair in. Even Sarah had gone home hours ago. He was almost sure he was the only one left in the building besides the janitors.

John left the office, spinning the lock on the door knob before letting it close behind him. It was a short trip down the corridor to the outside and he'd hailed a cab, crawling as he gave his address. The cabbie nodded and sped away.

"It feels like it's been forever, John." John turned to face the man he'd been desperately avoiding for the day, the inner peace he'd somehow managed to accumulate breaking like a dam. He heaved a sigh and knuckled his forehead. "It's been a day."

"Well, the time in your head is different when you're being ignored."  
"What do you mean by that?"  
"Meaning, I don't like being ignored."  
"You bother me too much."  
"You bother yourself. Unresolved business. Have you been visiting your therapist?"

John wrinkled his brow. "Of course. You should know that." The man smirked, turning his eyes over John. "So you admit to knowing I'm a part of you?" His face flushed and John shook his head. "No. You're just a specter, I would think." Sherlock scoffed. "Specter? You don't believe in that bollocks." John looked away from him, eyes settling on the outside world.

"What is it you want, anyways?" He said slowly. Sherlock shrugged. "Inner peace. You can't hide from your problems." John looked back to meet the steely gaze. "I know that…" He said, making a face. "Then why do you insist on ignoring me?" John frowned. "I don't exactly ignore y-"

"You do." The man seemed smug. "You don't like dealing with your issues. You hate thinking about how Sherlock died, even though the memory gets replayed every night whilst you sleep." He said, his eyes turning forward as he crossed his leg over the other. He folded his arms across his chest. "You really need to think about it, though. Sort it out and get it out and dealt with otherwise it will eat you alive."

John snorted. "You sound like my therapist." Sherlock smiled slightly. "That's because that's what she told you. Word for word." John nodded, looking away again as the car pulled to the sidewalk. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small lump of cash, pressing it to the cabbie as he crawled out. Sherlock followed.

"Well, I'm not sure what to do." He called as the Cab driver drove away and he was left standing on the sidewalk. Sherlock eased his hands into his pockets, looking up to the building. "We never are." He said numbly as John trudged to the door and entered the home he so desperately wished he could leave.

The flat was dark upon arriving and John frowned, glancing around. Sherlock was standing a bit behind him, eyeing John. "Something the matter?" He said softly. John said nothing, but moved to the far wall to flip the lamp on. "I left the lamp on when I went to work this morning…" His voice trailed off as Sherlock nodded. "Power surge. Could've put it out." He shrugged.

John heaved another sigh and pushed himself into the sitting room, dropping his things on the floor before laying himself flat on the old sofa he'd purchased from a thrift store. Sherlock walked in calmly, eyes drifting about again. "Needs a paint job." He said quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets. John growled and rolled over. "Just go. Would you? I'm tired." The other snorted and took to moving towards the arm chair that sat in the corner. "That's up to you, John." He adjusted his jacket and took a seat. "Whether I come or go. I have no power." 

John curled himself up as far as he could and pressed his face into the couch, ignoring Sherlock. He was just nonsense. All of this was. This was crazy and the only thing John knew right now was that he felt like he was going insane.


End file.
